A Lessson In Heat
by Aspiring.Loner
Summary: It's unbearably hot. And yet, Merlin's mind is preoccupied with something else.


Disclaimer: Don't own a single thing. If I did, it wouldn't just be subtext.

Author's Note: Hola a todos! It's been awhile. I've been suffering from lack of creativity, but I got a short burst.

Now, this was written quickly and just skimmed over, so I'm not promising the next great matserpiece.

And yes, I know the title sounds a bit suggestive, but hey, I had to get your attention somehow. =]

-A Lesson In Heat-

The sun was high in the sky—the rays beating down on the bustling town, watching over every inch of space, throwing everyone in the bright spotlight. It made a thick haze congest the air, making everything unbearably sticky and humid. People scattered to any slither of shadow but that did not stop sweat beads from running down their skin, bathing them in it. It was one of those lazy days, people lounged and didn't dare move a muscle lest they spontaneously combust.

But, some people didn't seem to understand the concept.

Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, was being fused to his armor, the sweat sticking to it, the sun practically warping the metal. And yet, he still was out swinging his sword, gracefully dancing in his bulky armor as though it was a second skin. The sword glinted in the sun, causing sudden blindness if pointed at the right angle. And the prince was amusing himself by casting the burning light on a certain manservant that was casually lying under a tree, trying to avoid turning his skin a vicious crimson color.

"Arthur." Came the exasperated voice, trying to shield his blue orbs from the malicious ball of fire.

The prince should have admonished him, should have put the servant in his place, but he didn't have the heart. His terrible manservant was the only one who knew him inside out, was the only one who treated him like a human being and not some title. He always felt as though the two sort of completed each other, Merlin was his rock, his constant.

"Yes, Merlin?" was the innocent reply, making the dark haired wizard narrow his eyes with a glare. The two had this constant battle, the pushing and shoving. Merlin was honestly surprised they hadn't strangled each other yet, but he found a comfort in Arthur, and he knew his destiny was keeping him bound to the other. And really, he felt the connection, it was invisible, but it felt tangible—he could feel the energy buzzing between them.

Arthur would be a great king, far more noble and compassionate than his domineering father. He wouldn't rule with an iron fist, but with an outstretched hand. Merlin could see it in his eyes, could see the burning determination, could see the goodness radiating from his soul, and could practically see the golden halo floating atop his golden hair. Yes, Arthur would be great. And Merlin would be there to witness it, to make sure he didn't lose his footing and fall into an abyss of hatred and fear.

The young wizard was thrown out of his musing by a thick shadow hovering over him. He cracked an eye open, seeing the prince with his crooked smile, a glint in his eye that could only mean torture. "Whatever you want, the answer is no. It's bloody hot out here." Merlin said simply, ignoring the way the other's lip jutted out, the way his features softened.

"But Merlin. I need to train. And you're better than nothing. Well, perhaps a tree would e a better fighter than you…"

"Well, I'm sure the trees would not object."

"Merlin."

"Hm?"

"I command you."

"You're using your title like a petulant child again."

"As long as it gets me what I want."

"I hate you."

"Now, we know that's not true. Now, up." The prince said, and the other boy could hear the smile.

Merlin grumbled quietly, standing up and stretching his long limbs. He hadn't noticed the other's burning stare until he faced the prince, suddenly being bombarded with clear blue eyes, the emotions conflicted. The young wizard shrugged it off, standing a few feet in front of Arthur, picking up a sword, biting his lip as it seared his skin.

He was going to die.

A laugh came from Arthur before he lunged, the finesse and talent apparent, his body gliding. Merlin found himself transfixed, watching the intense concentration, the furrowed brow, the burning eyes, and the sweat casually running down the sun kissed skin. Merlin swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling claustrophobic—he felt as though his blood was boiling, he couldn't hear anything but his hitching breath.

And then came the loud clink of metal, and he was sprawled on the ground, dazed and confused.

"Merlin, surely you can't be that terrible? Stop being so scatterbrained." The prince commented in his arrogant tone, but held out a hand to haul the thin boy up. Merlin slowly grasped the hand, feeling an electric spark course through his body. It shook him to the core and he was left breathless and completely confused.

The prince sighed, "Get into stance."

Merlin fumbled with his long limbs before gripping the sword tightly, his thoughts buzzing noisily. Then he felt the warm breath ghost over his neck, thick and warm. His whole body stiffened, feeling hands wrap around him, whispering over his fingers—"you're grip is too tight" came the voice, seeming so far away. Then there was a light squeeze of his waist, "you're too stiff, relax." The voice was so gentle, and Merlin imagined it would taste like chocolate, melting to the touch. The hands kept roving, silently fixing his posture as the young wizard flushed brightly, and bit his lip to avoid making an ungodly sound.

The presence was suddenly gone, and Merlin wanted nothing more than to reach out, to touch the other man, to feel the skin sculpted to perfection, to witness the stark contrast from his pale, translucent skin and the tanned, rich skin. He wanted to trail his tongue everywhere, lapping up the sweat, tasting the salty water.

Oh dear god. His brain must be frying in the heat—it probably resembled something like scrambled eggs.

"I think that's enough for today. Now, help me out of my armor." There was the commanding voice, the firm voice, the one that sent a brief shiver through Merlin.

"Yes, Sire." Said the small voice, almost cracking unpleasantly.

Shaking hands reached out, unclasping the armor, the long fingers fumbling slightly. The hands tried not to linger, tried not to feel the warm skin underneath the armor, underneath the flimsy shirt. Merlin knew the other body well, could map the planes out in his head, and could see the definition— the body crafted beautifully.

Merlin finally dared to look up at the Prince's face, seeing the eyes clouding over, seeing the almost maddening look, seeing the look of a hunter—a hunter that has almost captured his prey.

"Merlin." Came the strained voice, the Prince obviously trying to keep a grip on reality even though his eyes were suddenly trailing up and down the lithe body and his finger had crept to trace the firm cheekbones.

"Arthur." Came the cracked reply, his tongue gliding across his dry lips, accidentally brushing against the calloused finger.

"My rooms. Now."

A/N: Well, hope you enjoyed it. I wanted to build it up more, but I really couldn't be bothered.


End file.
